Atonement
by whitesheets
Summary: In which Monsignor Timothy Howard keeps his promises. AU - Canon Divergence, Jude/Timothy


**Author's Note:** I started writing this over the last few weeks without any intention of publishing it, since it began as a free-flow writing exercise. Needless to say, nothing ever goes according to plan. Jessica Lange's stunning portrayal of Sister Jude needs more appreciation/attention - such a perfectly rendered character deserves all the fics! I also wanted to try to write things through the Monsignor's eyes as well, since his character had been left, IMHO, slightly two-dimensional in the series. Despite the 'Romance' tag, it's actually a lot more Drama than Romance, for obvious AHS-reasons.

The tone of this fic may be OOC for some readers, so just a fair warning here in case you want to turn back!

No beta, so apologies for any mistakes in advance. Cross-posted on AO3, under the username _whitesheets_.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Atonement**

 _by whitesheets_

Timothy Howard had always believed in love – everlasting, powerful, transcending love. He loved God, he loved the children of God and he loved the broken souls who weep for salvation in the dimness of confession. And because love was pure, and good, and _right,_ there could be no sin in the love in his chest for the scent of gardenias, for the decadent perfection of coq au vin, and for the woman who tried so hard to hide the hope in her eyes each time he spoke her name.

Timothy loved Sister Jude, as he loved God, as he loved all children of God and of all the members of the clergy he had ever known, Sister Jude had always had something more in the confidence of her jaw and the steely set of her eyes.

Even now, as she looked at him across a humble table in Briarcliff's kitchen, watching him sip his wine without ever touching a single drop ("I've renounced spirits," she had once said, but he had never asked her why), he could feel the reverence in her gaze, almost as if she was in the presence of the the Son of God.

Who better to be his Mother Superior than a woman who saw in him, the same he envisioned for himself?

"Sister, I must commend you on this," he said, gesturing meaningfully at his empty plate.

"Ah," she ducked her head, in a rare show of shyness at his compliment.

"I have yet to come across anything quite as beautiful," he said, swirling his wine in the crystal glass.

The nun cocked her head, perhaps deciding on a response. Timothy could see her thinking, the subtle changes in her face, a crease deepening and then relaxing, the swift brush of her fingers against her golden hair.

Absently, he wondered at the rest of her hair under the dark, obscuring cloth.

"You could make an attempt of it yourself, Father," she finally said. "If you are good at following instructions."

"I am," Timothy declared, smiling. He was pleased that their conversation tonight did not venture into the work at Briarcliff. It had been a conscious effort on his part to avoid it, partially because he did not want to remind her of Arden, but mostly because he enjoyed the ease of being in her presence.

How powerful he felt from the knowledge that he was perfect in the eyes of his companion, not needing to be watchful over his every word.

She stood, and walked over to a table. "We'll see," she threw over her shoulder, rummaging through a drawer.

"Do you not have faith in me, Sister?" he asked, half-teasing.

She returned, with a scrap piece of paper and pen.

"My faith is earned," she said, as she scribbled on the margin of what looked to be an old brochure from a hair salon, old enough that most of the text had faded.

"I see," he allowed, taking the slip of paper when she handed it over. "I promise to report on my progress," he said, skimming through the handwritten recipe in blue ink.

"Be sure to, Father," she chuckled.

He knew her words were merely words.

He had already earned her faith many summers ago, when she agreed to come to Briarcliff and live amongst madness to help see his vision through.

* * *

Timothy had always believed that madness was an affliction for those who had lost God along the way. It was through an absence of spiritual strength that madness would descend, into the hollowness which should have been filled with faith and love for God. It was why he had founded Briarcliff, to help tortured souls heal through God.

Madness shouldn't have overcome someone like Sister Jude, with her iron grip on faith and prayer. It was why he had chosen _her_ in the first place, because she was strong, and unyielding. He had always suspected that she held unspoken troubles within herself as he caught glimpses of a damaged woman hiding under the cloth (her eyes held such melancholy on the rare occasion of an unguarded moment), though he had always chosen to see it as a sign of true strength.

Yes, there were vices she struggled against. It had become more apparent of late, but he did too, when his eyes and thoughts wandered.

 _He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her_.

But when she stared at him through the haze of shock, and tranquilizers they'd pumped into her system, Timothy couldn't find the woman he thought he'd known anywhere in her eyes. They'd told him that the woman in front of him had taken a man's life with her bare hands and he still had trouble believing it.

Could she truly have lost her way so suddenly, so _violently_?

He visited her again the night after he'd stripped her from her position in the Church, still reeling, still trying to make sense of what had happened.

Timothy had tried to keep this from happening, fearing that the stresses of Briarcliff were proving to be too much for her increasingly fragile psyche. He had tried to change her course. She would have been almost painfully too far away in Pittsburgh, although far enough to keep her from knowing things she didn't need to know.

 _"I've contacted a colleague, Father Bernard, in Pittsburgh. He's just opened a home for wayward girls._ _I've recommended you highly to run it."_

 _"Are you firing me?"_

 _"You've lost your way. You need a new beginning. You're booked on a plane out of Logan Airport, Friday morning, 8:30AM," Timothy said, pointedly cold, hoping that she would understand that this wasn't up for debate._

 _"This is –" Disbelief painted her angled features. "This is all about Dr. Arden, isn't it?"_

 _She'd always had a knack of figuring out the heart of issues he had no wish to address. If only she could see that he was doing it for her own good. "Dr. Arden is not the issue here!"_

 _"Dr. Arden is entirely the issue here! He's turned you against me. But I was right about him."_

 _"Pack up your things, Sister."_

While Timothy had never been the greatest fan of Dr. Arden, the man was brilliant, in his own way and he was sure that some good would come out of his tests – he was under no illusions that the successful treatment of Briarcliff's insane would help spread the news of their good work. If only Sister Jude could have seen the greater outcome and have faith in his purpose as much as she had faith in him.

"Sister Jude," he said, out of habit, and then realized his error. "Jude."

 _Patron saint of lost causes._

Her eyes were closed, and he couldn't tell if she was truly sleeping, blonde hair unkempt on the pillow. Somehow, he had always imagined the first time seeing her hair to be – well, to _not_ be _this_.

"Judy," he tried, and her eyes snapped open.

In the years Timothy had known her, Sister Jude had never, _never_ looked at him with anything else but respect. The storm within dark pools of brown made his stomach quiver, even if they were veiled behind the haze of drugs.

"How do you feel?" he asked, gently.

"Let me out," she muttered, ignoring his question completely.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that."

He touched her hand in an effort to comfort her, but every muscle was taut under his fingers, as if she was preparing to defend herself… or attack, the way she'd attacked Frank McCann.

"They are lying. All lies," she mumbled, gazing at a point beyond his shoulder. "He was going to kill me…" her voice trailed off, when she seemed to realize that she was completely strapped down to the bed. "Let me go," she said again, tiredly.

Timothy sighed. She wasn't lucid enough to give him the answers to his questions.

"Rest now."

"You are a coward, Father," she whispered, and he was overcome by sadness.

"You are confused, Jude."

 _Jude of lost causes._

"No, no. I am not." Even drugged, he could see her internal turmoil. "I am not confused. You are – you are."

"Sister," he said, and then sighed. Coming here was a mistake. "Jude."

"They have blinded you, Timothy Howard," she said, eyes burning with desperation, triumphing over whatever sedative they had given her. Gone was any sign of admiration she had previously held for him.

 _They_.

All because a substance of pleasure was also simultaneously a substance of vice. She had turned so unexpectedly against Sister Mary Eunice – the girl Jude had always held a soft spot for, Timothy knew.

He stood. "I pray for you everyday, Jude."

"Pray for yourself, you son of a bitch," she spat. "You'll need it more than I do."

Timothy kept silent, and escaped into the dank hallway. He yearned to speak to someone for counsel, but grasped with a stark clarity that he had lost the only person who would have listened to him without judgment.

He drove several miles into the village for an appointment at a local school, and decided to stop by the chapel for a moment of silence. It was small and fit no more than fifty, but was filled with light from its large windows and whitewashed walls, complete with a simple wooden confession box. When he was younger, he would have been content with something like this but he had come to see that real change could only be made from above.

His heels clicked against the tiled floor as he approached the altar. Unlit white candles encased by simple candlesticks threw vertical shadows on the walls from the afternoon sun.

In the silence, the creak of the wooden door was uncomfortably loud. The familiar veiled silhouette of a man comforted Timothy.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many months since I have last confessed."

"Bless you, my son. Tell me what burdens you."

"I have lied to my superiors, my brothers… but only for good, I promise. They do not understand what must be done, they have no faith in the cures of science. My untruth has brought upon great pain to my friend. I – she – she has demons, and I am afraid I have been the indirect cause of her losing her way."

"What is this untruth, you speak of?"

"There is a doctor in my employ. A brilliant doctor. I have allowed him to carry out tests, for the purpose of finding a cure for souls lost to insanity. With the power of God's love, and science, I have faith that there is a great good we can do. But this doctor..." Timothy clenched his teeth. "The man has a past, a terrible past."

"We judge not a man for what he has done, but for what he is doing. Only God will punish sins past, it is not our place."

"My friend does not understand this. This matter has caused a great rift." A rift likely beyond repair, Timothy didn't say.

"Do not blame your friend. Human beings are difficult creatures. She will come to see the way of forgiveness, if God wills it so."

Timothy wanted to say more, but couldn't. How could he? How could he talk about losing the admiration of a sister of the Church, the long-gone scent of gardenias or the warmth she made him feel with the way she said "Father"?

"There is hate in her eyes when she looks at me."

"My son, no one can hate you more than someone who used to love you."

* * *

Timothy drifted in and out of consciousness, the searing pain in his hands and feet no longer at the forefront of his mind. Faces flashed beyond his eyes, his dead mother, dead father, the brother he no longer spoke to, Father Ignatius who had been his first mentor, Jude…

 _They have blinded you, Timothy Howard_.

Her voice invaded his thoughts, memories of a steady, reliable hand in his very own. She had been right, she had always been right. He had looked but did not see – why had he believed Leigh Emerson over Jude? Guilt was a hard solid mass in his empty stomach.

His head throbbed, lungs still burning. The warm blood had stopped trickling down his arm, drying against his skin, pulling it tight. There was nobody now, no hand to hold, no comfort.

He prayed for death to come swiftly but she hovered, refusing. Her dark hair and pale skin was in such contrast to the warm honey he was accustomed to observing.

"Why are you here?" he whispered, face covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

"You have more work to do," the angel said. He watched her red lips move with purpose, voice sweet like a Southern belle, betraying the truth of who she was. "The devil lives at Briarcliff in your favourite young nun. You must cast her out."

"I'm too weak." He was. And a coward.

"God will help you."

"She'll know."

The angel was persistent. "Guard your thoughts. Use your rosary. Each bead is His name."

His gaze blurred. He wasn't strong enough. Jude – Jude would have had the strength. She would have given him the conviction he needed.

"This is your moment, Timothy."

He failed.

Sister Mary Eunice had not only known what he was thinking, but had easily overpowered him, immobilizing him with an unnatural force and stripped him from his virtue as easily as if he were a mere child.

Memories of red silk rustling filled him with shame.

He had first seen the red slip while packing Jude's things ( _Was this what she wore to sleep within the chilly walls of Briarcliff?_ he had wondered) and then pushed it deep within the recesses of his mind, never to think of it again.

But the Devil had known even thoughts he did not allow himself to think. It had been all wrong – Sister Mary Eunice's skin was too pale, hair too fair, and her scent was unfamiliar, too sweet … Timothy's eyes snapped open at the pain shooting up from his palms, having unknowingly clenched his fist.

He had gone looking for Jude in the common room but an orderly had told him that she was in the bakery – _their_ bakery, he thought. It had been their idea, their success. Not for the first time, he wondered how it had all gone so wrong.

His stomach lurched when he caught a glimpse of her, catatonic, eyes glazed over. She stared at her own hands as if they were foreign to her. He had done this to her, he thought. He had trusted Leigh Emerson, Sister Mary Eunice, Dr. Arden... She said he'd tried to rape her – he'd believed she was talking about Frank McCann but now – his jaw tightened.

"Everyone, I'd like you all to stop what you're doing and go to the common room," he instructed, eyes fixed on the woman he had come to speak to.

Timothy watched her stand slowly, with considerable effort, and he immediately went to her. "Jude…"

She looked at him, confused.

He approached. "Will you remain here, please?"

Silently, she obeyed and took her seat once more.

"The medication they give you is strong, I know," he admitted. "It affects your motor skills. Here." He sat down across her, and tried to keep her attention once everyone had left the room. "Take your loaf and push it with the heel of your hand," he said. He watched her place her hands clumsily on the dough in front of her. "Like this," he said, pushing the heel of his own hand into a lump of dough.

She made no attempt to follow his instructions, and instead, stared at his hands.

He caught her eyes, and dazed as she was, he could tell his injured hands bothered her.

"Oh. I'm all right," he attempted to comfort her.

Jude stared disbelievingly at him.

"At least my hands are all right."

Her gaze was confused. He hadn't been able to know for sure that she even recognized him but the hint of concern he'd seen moments ago for his hands assured him that Sister Jude was in there, somewhere, and she was listening.

"I came here to talk to you. It seems I don't know who else I can unburden myself to. You've always been a loyal and honest friend. You've always had the gift of moral clarity." Timothy's guilt swallowed him. "I owe you an apology, Jude. More than an apology. There are no words for my regret."

Jude watched him in unnerving quiet.

"The devil lives inside Sister Mary Eunice. You were right. I tried to cast it out but I failed. In truth, it was as an epic failure. She'll destroy everything. Why didn't I listen to you? Why was I so stubborn? She's destroyed you." Tears of shame burned in his eyes. "And now she's destroyed me. My virtue is gone, Jude. She took it from me, violated me."

Though she did not speak, her eyes bore into his with silent anguish.

"I tried to resist, but – " He bowed his head. "I don't know where else to turn. I'm struggling with whether I should renounce my vows." Timothy placed his hand on hers, trying to reach the Jude he knew.

"I need your counsel," he pleaded. "Should I confess and walk away from my beloved Church … and our dream?"

She shifted, and then shook her head. His heart leaped. His rare bird was still there.

"What should I do?"

"Kill her," she said, with all the conviction that he lacked.

And he knew he would.

* * *

A thunderstorm came the night Timothy received news on his new appointment as the Archbishop of New York. Rain lashed on the tall, imposing windows of Briarcliff, and thunder clapped without mercy. He would leave for New York in two weeks, and he'd felt more than a passing relief in leaving this place behind. He still woke from nightmares about Sister Mary Eunice, and spent hours on his knees praying until the sun rose.

Unable to sleep, he ventured downstairs aimlessly, and found himself walking towards the patients' quarters.

It was quiet, except for the odd mutterings of patients who were not yet asleep. He navigated to the solitary cell of patient G2573.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was raspy, sharp. He'd received reports that she'd been difficult, refusing to take the daily medications prescribed.

"I'd like to talk to you, Jude." He hadn't planned on talking to her. In fact, he hadn't planned on coming down here.

"Talk then."

"Will you come with me? To the office."

She shrugged, but he heard her follow when he stepped out into the hallway. Silently, they moved amongst the shadows, like ghosts.

The office was dim, only lit by the glow of a solitary lamp on the desk. It used to be her desk, he thought. She stopped at the doorway, arms crossed defensively.

"Please, sit," he urged, closing the door behind her so she couldn't flee. He didn't know her anymore, couldn't predict her actions the way he could have not so long ago.

She moved across the room at his ask, but chose to lean against the desk instead.

"Jude –"

"It's been _months_ since Mary Eunice died," she said, interrupting him, voice shaking. Her anger came off her in waves. "And you never came by, not _once_."

"Yes," he conceded. "It has been difficult, trying to get things in order again."

She looked around the room. "What did you want to see me about?"

He couldn't tell her, because he didn't know. So much had happened, so much had changed. A silent moment lasted too long.

"Have you fully recognized the irony here? You relinquished your virtue not to a loving woman, but to the Devil. It's so perfect- it's perfect, it's perfect," she taunted. A hollow smile took her features.

"I don't want to hear you talk like this. I don't know this person," he said, refusing to believe that he'd lost Sister Jude forever.

She ignored him. "What have you decided to do? Renounce your vows?"

"Not at all. I'm going to stay the course," he said, with heaviness he did not expect to have.

Timothy watched her push herself away from the desk, felt his chest pound as she approached him with a sure confidence.

"I have too much to give, too much to offer. I can't just throw it all away," he said, feeling the need to justify himself.

She stopped when she was close enough, her breaths moist warm puffs against his skin. She smelled like cigarettes. "I thought you hung the moon, Timothy. I had impure thoughts, I'll admit to that."

Timothy closed his eyes at her closeness. He remembered comfortable evenings in the kitchen, her adoring gaze and surprising shyness.

She touched his face, her fingertips coming to rest on his lips. Her eyes were darker than he recalled. "I would have done anything for you. I would've done anything you asked me to do." She turned away, and he missed the warmth of her hand. "That's how much I believed in your fantasy of the magic carpet ride to Rome."

He grabbed her arm to stop her from walking away. Her gaze flitted from his hand on her arm, to his face. The rain was relentless outside.

"Believe me, Jude. It's not a fantasy."

She scoffed and shook her head. "Can you imagine the disillusionment, the shame and the disgust I feel now that I see through you and your –"

"Stop," he said.

Judy Martin raised her chin in defiance. " – stupid, pitiful – "

 _No one can hate you more than someone who used to love you_.

Timothy kissed her.

She stepped back in shock, reaching out to steady herself on the desk behind her. Her eyes darted furtively between his face and the door. Suddenly, he saw her again, Jude of gardenias, razor sharp wit, assessing the situation … planning to flee –

He kissed her again, pressing down on her so that she lost her footing and balanced precariously on the desk. Her lips were damp and warm, but she was unwilling to yield, pushing against his chest in an effort to break away.

"No," she gasped, and he took the opportunity of her parted lips to deepen his assault. He had never kissed a woman before, aside from his childish fumbling with a neighbouring girl at age ten, but he was physically stronger than the woman fighting him.

She pushed against him again, and this time he grabbed her wrists to stop her protest.

"Unhand me," she demanded, but her eyes flashed with fear.

She had never been afraid of him.

"Jude –"

"No, please don't, Timothy," she begged.

He paused. Did she think he was going to violate her?

"I'm not going to hurt you."

She shook her head, tears now spilling over her cheeks. "You already have."

He loosened his grip, and she moved to cover her face. "I thought you hung the moon, I thought – I thought you – " she stopped herself.

"I'm sorry."

She gazed at him mournfully and he ached within. Was this how it felt like – heartbreak? His hand moved to cup her cheek, hot tears catching on his thumb, cooling under his skin.

And then her arms were around his neck, desperately pulling him down, his lips finding hers without effort. It was almost as if he had done this a hundred times, the way he pushed her onto the desk, the cardigan off her shoulders. She clawed at his collar, undoing the buttons of his shirt with practiced movements. Timothy tried to follow her pace, but his fingers were clumsy and he couldn't undo the buttons of her slip.

"Let me," she said, when she was done with him.

"May I?" His palm rested on her waist, against the dry warmth of cotton. She'd unfastened the buttons, and the inch of flesh he could see sent a throb down his groin.

She bit her lip, hesitated for a split-second, and then nodded.

Timothy let his fingertips graze the soft skin of her stomach before growing bolder, slipping his hand under her slip, inching higher until he brushed against the underside of her breasts. He could feel gooseflesh on her skin in the wake of his touch, marveling at the power he had over her reactions.

"Oh." A nipple pebbled under his touch.

"You are … exquisite."

Jude parted her thighs to let him closer. He stroked the outside of her thigh before hiking it up, knowing instinctively that he wanted to press against her core. Her slip fell back, exposing her thighs as she kissed his jaw. Overwhelmed by the feel of her bare flesh, he could only think of touching more of her.

"Did you –" she started to ask, and then halted.

Timothy paused, seeing her distraction.

She looked away. "When Mary Eunice took you – did you touch her?"

"Never," he said, closing his eyes against the rush of unpleasant memories.

Jude persisted. "She was your favourite."

"No, she was the Devil," he said, with finality. "Jude." He took her face in both hands. "You are my rare bird."

Despite the tangles in her hair, it was soft and cool to his touch.

She gave him a small smile, despite her conflicted thoughts. He kissed her again, drawn in by her taste, by the feel of her body under his palms. Timothy needed more, and she seemed to read his mind. She pulled at his zipper, tugged his trousers over his hips, and took him into her hand.

Timothy groaned at the contact and buried his face in her neck.

Sensing his inexperience, she took his hand and guided him to her heat. Following her lead, he pressed against her soft flesh through the thin material of her underwear, yielding a gasp from her. Desperately, he pulled the white barrier down her legs, and it twisted unceremoniously until it hung off her ankle like a white flag of surrender.

Jude tugged at him, positioning his stiffness against the slickness of her flesh. "Now," she whispered into his ear, lacing her fingers through his dark hair.

Unable to hold himself back, he thrust forward, taking her in one swift motion and sighed at the unexpected delight of how snug and wet she was. She cried out, thighs clamping around his hips. This felt nothing like how it had been when he had been taken against his will. How could it feel so right deep within him, to be committing a sin like this?

"Please Timothy," she begged, arms wound tight around his neck. Outside, thunder rumbled like the belly of a hungry beast.

He shifted so that he slid deliciously against her, and pushed forward with a groan. A guttural sound escaped her as she threw her head back in pleasure, the cotton slip pooling around her waist. The sheen of perspiration on her forehead and flushed cheeks made her glow in the warm light of the lamp. Her breasts were full, peaking whenever his roaming hands brushed against them, the small scratches she made on his nape sending shivers down his back. Vaguely, he remembered her nails usually being short, neatly trimmed – but they felt a lot longer now on his skin.

With every thrust, his control slipped further away, the tendrils of pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach as her cries became more desperate. Her arousal coated him copiously, easing his raw attempts at their coupling, and soon, he came to the precipice of release.

"I – " he breathed in, jaggedly.

"Slow down," she said, pressing her thighs together to resist his frenzied pace, palms on his chest. "Timothy."

"I can't – I need –"

Jude took his hand. "Touch me," she said, urgently. His thumb circled her swollen bud and he felt her tremble around his girth. "Oh, yes."

He repeated the motion, mesmerized by the mewling whimpers she made against his shoulder, until she suddenly stilled as if time had stopped. Then, Timothy felt her clench erratically around his hardness as a cry left her parted lips. With a final thrust, he followed her into the abyss, hips jerking, unable to silence his own groans of pleasure.

In the stillness of their embrace, he could feel the ebbing flutter of her core with each stroke of his thumb, and he continued his gentle caress until she was fully spent. When their collective breaths evened, he gently removed himself. Timothy saw her quiet surprise when he began to pull her slip back over her shoulders.

"It's chilly," he explained, feeling the need to protect her.

"Not as cold as the cells downstairs."

"Still."

"It's all right, Timothy," she said, and stopped his hands. He stepped back and she began to dress, covering herself up with her previously discarded clothing.

He took the opportunity to fix himself too, feeling sheepish that he had taken her against her old desk like a schoolboy. The wantonness of what he'd done dawned on him. When he was done, he looked up to find her staring out the window, arms crossed at her midriff. She had a beautiful profile. He wanted to hold her but wasn't sure if she would welcome it.

Feeling his gaze, Jude turned back to him.

"I can't imagine this was what you meant when you said you wanted to talk," she murmured, her voice lacking the sentimentality he assumed would be appropriate in a situation they were in.

"It wasn't," he admitted.

A thought came to him. "A few weeks ago, they packed up Sister Mary Eunice's things. I mean to get rid of them, but I don't suppose you wanted to take a look and see if she – " he paused, thinking of red silk. "If she kept anything of yours?"

"That's kind of you," she replied. Timothy couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. After all, he had given away all of her things to the poor and whatever remained was only there out of some mocking twist of fate.

He felt removed from his body, as if his actions were a product of some greater power beyond his consciousness. They had just – made love (he wasn't sure if _this_ was making love) – but she had erected a barrier between them before he could truly wrap his mind around what had happened.

Nonetheless, having a purpose now, he crossed the room and opened a large storage cabinet. He pulled out a box and set it on the desk by the lamp. It wasn't large – clearly, Sister Mary Eunice did not have many worldly possessions. He removed the lid and peered inside

"Ah," Jude said, peering inside along with him. "I can't say I'm surprised."

The bright red negligee greeted them first. She picked it up by its straps.

"Are you surprised?" she asked.

"Somewhat." He didn't say that he'd been shocked the first time he had seen it amongst her things, spurred on by Mary Eunice's insinuations about Jude.

 _I wonder who she was fancying when she wore it._

"It was one of the only things I had with me when Mother Claudia took me in."

"Of course," he acquiesced. Timothy tried to imagine her life before she'd found God and couldn't. She'd seemed experienced when she touched him – heat crept up his neck – but she had never spoken much about herself.

"Your curiosity is written all over your face," she said, without malice. In fact, she almost seemed amused when she caught his gaze. How long had it been, since she had looked at him that way? His chest swelled.

"Do you have family, Jude?" What he meant was – _did you have a husband, Jude? Have you loved another man, Jude? Do you have children by him, Jude?_

"My mother passed years ago," she said, matter-of-fact. "I have no siblings."

By that he knew she had no father she cared to speak about.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be – she was happier in the final months of her life than she had ever been."

Jude dropped the silk and dug further into the box, uncovering a silver mirror and a small glass bottle of amber liquid. She inspected her reflection, wrinkled her nose in what she saw, and placed the mirror face down on the table.

"I never thought I'd smell this again," she said, and uncapped the small bottle, releasing into the air the familiar scent he'd come to associate with her. "Well." She pushed the box away.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing I care to keep."

He was surprised that she'd left her red slip.

"All right, then I suppose these will all go." He returned the boxed to the cabinet and closed the door. He reckoned that it didn't matter, what happened to the box.

"I'm leaving Briarcliff."

Jude tilted her head. "But you're not leaving the Church."

"On the contrary. I've been appointed Cardinal of New York." Two weeks, he thought. Soon, Briarcliff wouldn't be anything more than a failed project the Church had attempted.

She looked away, toying with the bottled perfume in her hand. "Well, good for you. You had a dream," she shrugged. Something had changed in her demeanor, changing the mood of the room. "You made it come true."

Timothy became serious. "You should also know that the Church is relinquishing ownership of Briarcliff. We've donated it to the state. They'll use it as an overflow facility."

She didn't respond, choosing to watch the rain instead.

"Jude, I cannot leave here knowing I've left you behind to rot."

Frustrated that he couldn't see her face, Timothy rounded the desk. But even as he stood right in front of her, she remained transfixed on the running raindrops.

"I'm arranging for your release. I'm going to get you out. The cruelty ends here."

She turned to him. "The cruelest thing of all, Timothy, is false hope," she said, slowly. Her quiet voice was heavy.

 _Do you not have faith in me, Sister?_

 _My faith is earned._

He took her hand. "I promise."

Her gaze dropped to where their hands joined, and then up at him. "When do you leave?"

"In two weeks."

She didn't respond, but her cheeks were wet.

* * *

Four days before Timothy was to leave Massachusetts for good, Jude's papers came through, signed, with all of the necessary stamps of approval. He sent a prayer of thanks that they were still blessed with God's mercy, and hoped that Jude could begin to see the light again. He had telephoned the Reverend Mother, and while the older woman had been cold, two Sisters of the Church arrived at Briarcliff the next day.

Although Jude was no longer a member of the clergy, Sister Esther and Sister Abigail had brought with them a few articles of clothing for her to change into, and fussed over her like mother hens. Jude would be released into the convent's care for the time being, as Mother Claudia had insisted, and Timothy had the distinct impression that the older woman wanted nothing more than to keep Jude as far from him as she could.

The saddest thing was, he thought, that Mother Claudia had good reason to.

He had offered Jude the use of his personal bathroom to ready herself while the Sisters waited, instead of the shared bathing arrangements patients used. Her old room had already been allocated to another of Briarcliff's staff and he wanted to return to her some of the dignity he had taken away.

When Jude finally reappeared, her hair was pinned and golden, although wispy curls still framed her face. The white shirt hung slightly too large on her frame, but she had rolled the sleeves up until her elbows. A plain black skirt stopped at her calves. Timothy's mind began to wander (he knew exactly what was under that skirt) until Sister Esther's exclamation pulled him right back down to earth.

"Oh, they fit!"

"Yes, thankfully," Jude said, touching her hair self-consciously. She didn't step further into the office.

Sister Abigail, a plump woman in her mid-forties, stood and went to her instead. "Sister Jude, oh, you _do_ look well," she said, momentarily forgetting that the woman before her was no longer a nun.

"Well, we must be off then! The car is waiting," Sister Esther said, picking up her leather briefcase. She had been the one to sign off Jude's release forms on the convent's behalf. Although younger than Sister Abigail, she held a more administrative position in the convent, and carried herself in a way which reminded Timothy of the Reverend Mother Claudia.

"I'm sorry, but would you mind giving Jude and I a few minutes, Sisters?" Timothy said, casting a meaningful glance at the woman in question.

"Of course, Father," Sister Esther said, and both nuns left the office, closing the door behind them.

"I guess you came through," she said.

"I did promise."

"It would have been nice to be consulted first, on where you planned on sending me."

"You needed to be released into the care of a custodian." They both knew it was because of the violence she had been accused of.

"And whose fault was that?" she snapped.

He sighed.

"At any rate, I suppose it would be good to return to the convent." She didn't move from her spot, arms crossed. The distance between them felt like a thousand miles.

"Will you … retake your vows?" he asked. In some way, he hoped that she would. At least it would return them to some semblance of normalcy from before. At least she wouldn't be walking away from God, from him.

"Vows," she chuckled without humour. "I don't know. Are you retaking yours? _You've_ broken _yours_ too, Timothy. Willingly, I should add."

He swallowed.

"You came to me before, wrecked with guilt, asking if you should confess and walk away. You were willing to leave out of some sense of honour then. Now …" She lowered her eyes.

"There is still so much to give –"

"You _could_ walk away, Timothy," she said, without looking up. "We could leave all of this behind, we could build something else together the way we dreamed we would. We could go anywhere else." Her knuckles were white, clutching at her own forearms.

He'd never had such a thought, and never imagined she would. The Church was _everything_ , held both their dreams and all the good they could do for the world. Yes, he had given into sin, but had prayed for forgiveness every waking moment ever since. He couldn't give everything up now, not after all that had happened. Shelley and Mary Eunice crossed his mind. He had taken lives with his bare hands, both times to stop suffering, to end evil. God had tasked him with an arduous calling, and he had risen to the occasion. He couldn't give up now.

"We could…" she whispered, almost to herself.

He closed the distance.

"Jude."

She lifted her head when he came close enough, but even then she couldn't hide the hurt dancing in her eyes at his unspoken rebuff.

"You have made a fool out of me, Timothy Howard."

"No, that isn't true."

She shook her head, and turned away, pulling the door open. An inmate ran past along with the expected clattering footsteps of orderlies. Timothy held back from touching her and regretted it immediately, for she had backed out from the privacy of the office into the corridor.

Something flashed across her face, disappearing as soon as it had come.

"I hope Rome is everything you imagine it would be."

As he watched her walk away, he understood it to be goodbye.

* * *

A month later, a telephone call came from the Reverend Mother.

"Cardinal Howard," she said, by way of greeting. Her voice was brittle on the line. "I was informed that you had been trying to get in touch. Forgive us. It has been an extremely trying few weeks. The new wing at the children's hospice has been plagued by unforeseen challenges, as you well know. We persist."

"Please let me know if you need any assistance," he offered, knowing she would reject it.

"Thank you for the offer," she said. "We are managing."

"Of course."

"I assume you are looking to hear how Jude is doing?" Even in the neutrality of her voice, he could sense her disapproval. She had never been fond of him, and he suspected it was because she was aware of the influence he held over Jude.

His silence must have told her all she needed to know.

"She is well. Her penchant for managing difficult men has been most helpful in sorting out this mess with the construction."

He grimaced at her use of phrasing.

"Has she retaken her –"

The Reverend Mother interrupted him. "No, Jude's stay is only temporary. In this life, we must find something to live for, or else when the darkness comes, we go back to where we were. God has granted mercy on Jude, and has given her another opportunity to triumph. We give her the support she needs, but she is under no obligation to return to the Church."

"I am glad to hear this," Timothy said, truthfully. Often, he would find himself thinking of what Jude could be doing, if she was all right, what she would say if she could see him do all the work they'd spoken about a lifetime ago. Would she be proud of him? Or would she consider his decisions a betrayal to their dreams of changing the world together?

"I hope you understand that it is not my place to speak to you of the future she decides on."

A moment passed.

"Would there be anything else, Cardinal Howard?"

A fleeting, absurd thought of asking if he could speak to Jude crossed his mind.

"No, Mother Claudia. Your call is appreciated. You have my thanks."

"Good-day, Cardinal."

The line clicked and disconnected before Timothy could return her wish.

* * *

It was not until another six months had passed, before Timothy allowed himself to truly think of Jude again – and it had been via a delightful _coq au vin_ which had been served at a charity fundraiser hosted by the church.

Almost instantly, he had been transported back.

 _You could make an attempt of it yourself, Father. If you are good at following instructions_.

He tried to enjoy the food, but the momentary lapse into the past had stolen his appetite and he left the function early, pleading an upset stomach. It was partially true – his stomach churned at how much he missed her.

He had never heard from Jude again, since that day she walked away at Briarcliff, and the Reverend Mother certainly never volunteered more information than what she had told him six months ago.

After that, in a place as crowded as New York, Timothy constantly found himself making double-takes at any woman at all, whose hair was like hers, whose walk was a little too sure. He turned each time he heard a Boston accent, a low, rich voice, the scent of gardenias and every time, he was met with disappointment.

Until he wasn't.

On hindsight, he thought, perhaps the _coq au vin_ had been a sign from God all along.

The children's hospital had always been a place which bothered Timothy. Sick children were more difficult – how could he justify the suffering of an innocent child, as a test from God? But he was there to visit a child who was under the care of the Church, ill with leukemia but childishly cheerful from the attention of the nurses who doted on him. While Timothy couldn't provide relief in the way the painkillers could, he could be a father-figure, listening to the boy's dreams of becoming a cowboy in a shared children's ward of the Columbia-Presbyterian on a Friday afternoon.

He was about to take his leave, and then he heard it – heard _her_ – before he saw her.

Her hair was shorter now, curls stopping at her shoulder. Like he last saw her, she wore a large shirt, sleeves rolled up. Although instead of a skirt, she wore trousers. She cradled a binder, as she spoke to a man Timothy recognized to be a hospital resident. Her throaty Boston accent sounded like music to his ears. It still felt odd to see her out of her habit, but even odder that he liked the way she looked now.

He stood frozen in the middle of the busy corridor as they came closer. So engrossed she was, in her discussion, that she didn't notice Timothy's presence. Finally, the man handed over a file, shook her hand, and retreated.

She barely looked up when she walked past him, nose stuck in the document she was reading. His voice caught in his throat as she disappeared through the swinging doors of the ward, but his feet were instantly moving.

"Jude!" he called, bursting through the doors, almost slamming into a young nurse.

Timothy halted, scanning the corridor, for a familiar face, heart pounding under his cassock like he had run a marathon. He looked at a dozen faces, all of them unfamiliar. His chest constricted when he realised that she was gone.

"Father."

He turned.

"Or should I say, Cardinal Howard now?"

"Jude," he repeated, breathlessly.

"I know my name," she said, with a smirk.

"Yes, of course," he said, unable to stop looking at her. She was a decade older than him – but it was funny how she seemed to have become younger, while the rest of the world aged, himself included.

"I didn't expect to run into you, of all people, here," she remarked. Any prior anger she'd harboured towards him in their last encounter was absent, or at least, carefully hidden.

"I'm visiting a friend," he said, not wanting to waste time clarifying. He wanted to know all of what she had been doing. Was she all right now? Was she here on a trip? "Are you still with the Church?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," she responded. "I'm sure Mother Claudia has mentioned the new wing at the hospice."

He nodded.

"I've been helping the sisters with it," she explained, with a small shrug. "I've not retaken my vows, if that's what you're trying so hard not to ask."

"I see." He wasn't surprised.

"Thank you for arranging the donations," she said, with polite professionalism. He found that he didn't care for it. "From the fundraiser last month. It has not gone unappreciated."

"We know the good work the convent has done for God."

"Good," she said, unabashedly.

Silence fell between them like a blanket. She seemed content to just look at him.

"There is a recital tonight, at St Peter's," he started, hoping to find a reason to see her again. "Seven o'clock. I hear that the tickets have sold out faster than the Rolling Stones."

She chuckled at his poor attempt at humour. "Another fundraiser?"

"We depend on the kindness of others," Timothy said, liking the sound of her easy laughter, basking in the rareness of the warm sound. "That's if you are staying – how long are you in the city for?"

"A while," was all she said.

"I'm sure I can abscond with an extra ticket."

Jude pursed her lips in thought, watching him as if her answer depended on what she found in his face.

"All right," she finally said, as if agreeing to something against her better judgment. "Seven then." She gave him a small smile. "I have to go to another appointment."

"See you in the evening," Timothy said.

She nodded, and disappeared down the corridor as if it had all been a dream.

Timothy stared after her, still half-believing his luck.

* * *

Just as she'd agreed, she met him on the steps of St. Peter's Church at five minutes to seven. Birds waddled around, ignoring their presence. She'd changed into a skirt but still wore the same shirt and he had opted to wear a shirt without a clerical collar. If she noticed, she didn't mention it.

"A good day, I hope?" he asked, as they walked into the building.

She held his gaze. "Yes."

He'd given up his seat in the front row and sat at the back with her, thankful that the concert was a low-key, community-led event, and he was allowed to dispense with the formalities. To his embarrassment, Jude held his attention throughout the entire recital. As much as he tried to enjoy the music, he found himself focusing on her scent, her little hums of enjoyment, and even her hands as she clapped (a stray thought about how her hands felt on his chest pushed itself to the forefront of his mind at one point).

When it was over, the crowd stayed to mingle and he was caught in between an approaching Sister of the Sacred Hearts Order, and the desire to be alone with Jude.

Alas, the nun had quicker feet than he'd expected.

"Cardinal Howard," the nun greeted.

"Sister Clarisse," he returned. "My friend, Jude."

"How very nice to meet you, Jude," the younger woman said, warmly. She reached out a hand.

"Likewise, Sister Clarisse," Jude replied, and shook the nun's offered hand.

"We are so pleased that you could make it, Cardinal."

"It was the most important event of my week," he said. "We thank you, for all your hard work with the home. The children are blessed to have you, Sister Clarisse."

Sister Clarisse smiled, ducking her head. "Only with your support, Father. It was our dream and you deserve as much credit, if not more. Would you like to join us, for supper? Some of us have yet to eat."

"Perhaps another time, Sister? I'm afraid age has made me drowsy by this time of the night," he said.

"I'll hold you to that," the nun said, good-naturedly. "And you're most surely not old."

"But I am," he said, gamely.

"Will I see you this Sunday?" she asked.

He could feel Jude's eyes on him. "Of course. Now I must bid you goodnight, Sister. Please send my regards to the rest."

"I will. Goodnight, Father." She smiled at night, and returned to the other patrons of the evening.

They walked out into the night air along with the crowd that was leaving. Nobody seemed to recognise or notice him, to his relief. They walked a distance in silence, randomly, until the crowd dispersed.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked.

"I did." She was distracted, faraway.

"Are you all right, Jude?"

At that, she threw him a quick glance. "Why wouldn't I be?" she retorted, a little too quickly.

He decided on honesty. They'd always been able to have honest conversations before. "Your mind isn't here."

"Sister Clarisse reminds me of Mary Eunice."

"Hmm, I suppose there is some resemblance," he agreed, although the only thing he could think of was the blonde hair. They turned a corner. "Is that what's bothering you?"

"No."

"Then, what is?"

"Why didn't you want to join her for supper? You haven't had dinner."

"Accompanying a friend takes precedence, I suppose."

"A friend," she repeated, and then fell silent.

He didn't know what to say, thinking about the way she fit so well against him. Their union had been burnt into his soul no matter how much he prayed for forgiveness. Each time he thought about her, his chest expanded with something so overwhelming and pure that he couldn't bring himself to feel regret. Now that she was here in the flesh, the familiar need to always have her by his side returned.

"She shares a dream with you, Timothy. I'd say she should be pretty darned important." Despite what she'd said, her face remained a neutral, as if she'd just made a comment about the weather.

He was confused. "The only thing we've ever shared, is a meeting with Mother Regina of the Sacred Hearts Order."

"And Sunday masses," she quipped.

"Jude…"

Her footsteps quickened, each click of her heel more severe. "The way she looked at you – blushing at your compliment, hoping you'd stay – She is in love with you."

"That is absurd."

"For the love of God," she muttered, having lost all pretense of neutrality. "Granted, she's beautiful, innocent…"

"And a child," Timothy interjected, shaking his head. He couldn't follow her train of thought.

After a brief silence, barring their footsteps, she spoke. "It doesn't matter," she said, quietly. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. But _what_ doesn't matter?"

" _Please_. Could we not just – walk?"

"Yes, let's walk," he sighed. She appeared to know where she was going, so he followed. There were still cars on the streets, despite the late evening. They walked for twenty minutes without a word, Jude always half a step ahead so he couldn't really see her face.

A woman they strode past winked at him. "You done pissed her off good," she mocked, grinning. Her teeth glinted white in the dark. "Wanna come home to a warm bed, tonight?"

Jude kept walking, unfazed, and he forced himself to ignore the woman too.

Finally, they stopped at the foot of a brownstone building. Someone was playing a well-worn Artie Shaw record and the sleek notes from a clarinet floated down below to where they stood. He looked up at an open window, where a man's smoking silhouette stood. Timothy glanced at the woman next to him out of the corner of his eye.

"I didn't know you were already living in the city," he said.

She shrugged.

"You are still upset."

"That's never stopped you before," she said, sharply.

He winced at her tone.

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Timothy wished she would not apologise and instead, explain herself. But he couldn't bring himself to prod, knowing that it would somehow bring her pain. So he settled for: "It's all right."

She looked him squarely in the eye.

"Are you hungry?"

If anything, he hadn't seen that coming. He had forgotten about his empty stomach.

"Yes."

"I suppose we could fix that," she said, tentatively. He could tell that she was unsure.

"I'd like that, yes," he agreed, and began to climb the stairs to the building's entrance so that she couldn't change her mind. "Is coq au vin a little too much to ask for?"

Jude pursed her lips, trying not to smile. A gust of wind ruffled her loose hair and he thought she'd never been more beautiful. "Most definitely."

Her place was small – more of a studio than a one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, but it had high ceilings and large windows with no curtains. Pipes were exposed on the ceiling but whitewashed, and she kept plants around the living area. Her old room in Briarcliff had been monastic, but where she lived now showed her tastes off in new ways. There were books on a small coffee table, both fiction and non-fiction (was she a keen reader?), mail addressed to Judy Martin (did she go by Judy now?), and a robin egg blue Dansette on a tall stool by the wall (what music did she listen to?). Dishes were drying on a rack in the small kitchenette, and there was an empty mug in the sink, with old coffee residue at the bottom.

It wasn't a lavish space, by any means, but it was decent. His original assumption had been that Jude was visiting, or had some business on Mother Claudia's behalf. Was she working now, in New York? She must be employed, to be able to afford rent. He wasn't sure if she would receive pension from the Church, but he didn't think it was likely after the unceremonious way she had been dismissed.

"Will eggs do?" she asked, already putting on an apron right over her skirt. "There's an open bottle of wine in the fridge if you'd like." She gave him an empty drinking glass. "I don't have wine glasses, as I am sure you understand why," she explained, when she noticed his confusion.

"Oh, yes. Of course." He opened her fridge and poured himself the wine she was referring to.

It felt awkward, trying to navigate _her_ apartment. She'd always been a polite host, always wanting to please, be it hosting him at the convent, or even at Briarcliff. Now, she was content to let him find his own way – gone was the devotion and inhibition, replaced by a striking poise and self-assurance. He was saddened that he'd lost her admiration, but found a sense of thrill that his rare bird had allowed him to come near again, had begun to trust him again, even after he had played a part in breaking her wings.

The mouth-watering scent of hot butter filled the apartment as Jude prepared the eggs with practiced ease. She appeared remarkably well-adjusted on her own – at least he felt she was – as if she'd lived like this her entire life. On the table where he sat, there was a half-full ashtray, yesterday's newspaper and a small, leather-bound Bible. A door left ajar showed him a glimpse of a bed covered in plain white sheets.

The neighbour playing Artie Shaw had switched the music and buoyant, infectious beat thrummed through the hallway outside. Timothy smiled when he realised he was tapping his finger to the music – _she says she loves you… and you know that can't be bad_ – and his eyes wandered to her record player. What kind of music did Jude listen to? He hoped it wasn't _Dominique_ , the French song had been stained by the insanity within Briarcliff's walls and he could never listen to it the same way again.

 _Yes, she loves you – and you know you should be glad…_

So engrossed he was, in trying to absorb the details of her apartment, that he started when a fluffy, rolled omelette was pushed right in front of him.

He looked up and Jude gave him a small smile, cheeks faintly flushed from the stove's heat. She offered him a fork.

"Thank you," he said, taking the utensil from her and shamelessly slicing the omelette into half.

She sat down beside him, holding a glass of plain water.

He took a first bite, and hummed appreciatively. A twinge grew in his chest, at how much he had missed her attention.

"Men do love their eggs," she said, amused.

Timothy immediately detested the idea of Jude making eggs (or anything else, for that matter), for other men and changed the subject. He took a swig of his wine. It wasn't expensive wine, but he didn't suppose she needed expensive wine to cook with. "Are you working with the Church here, now?" he asked, hoping to learn more.

"In a way. We're trying to bring some of the successful treatments here to Boston. For the children. It's voluntary. I like that better."

"In a way?" he prompted.

"Most days, I am at café few streets down. Wonderful pastries and I help out in the kitchen, here and there. Apparently, a lot of important writers like to sit there and write their important books." She chuckled, rolling her eyes. "At least that's what the owner likes to say. Regardless, it does well and I make enough to get by."

It made him happy to see her, for once, unburdened by demons he couldn't see.

"I'm glad, truly," Timothy said, and reached out for her hand out of habit.

Unpredictably, she recoiled the moment he touched her, crossing her arms defensively.

"Don't," she warned, or perhaps pleaded, he couldn't tell. Sorrow returned to her eyes.

The change in her mood puzzled him. "Jude?"

"Don't do this to me, Timothy." Her voice was tense.

"I don't understand."

"Don't let me hope when nothing will come of it." Jude avoided his eyes, blinking rapidly. "Don't let me think I could be enough. It would be a kind thing you could do, for once." She laughed at herself, at her unexpected honesty, and vulnerability. "I knew this was a bad idea, I knew it this afternoon, I – but I couldn't help myself, you know?"

"Jude, you are more than enough." He knew that admitting this aloud would bring about a new set of complications, but he couldn't stand to let her believe something so blatantly false – not anymore.

She laughed again, her breath ragged. "We both know that's not true. I'm only enough for a good fuck, nothing else."

"Jude!" he exclaimed, unaccustomed to the vulgarity, but more so at her dismissal of his feelings.

"You have no idea how much I've –" he stopped when she abruptly pushed away from the table, standing up.

"No, _you_ have no idea!" she retorted, running her fingers through her hair in agitation. " _You_ have no idea how it feels like to have your life destroyed by people who claim to love you."

Timothy rose from his seat and she took a step back to keep the distance between them.

"You will never know how it feels like when your fiancée gives you syphilis and abandons you the night before your wedding after you tell him what he's done," she said, hoarsely.

He was stunned.

"He took any family I could have had with him when he left. He _ruined_ me, and then told his friends _I_ was the whore."

"You've never said –"

"How could I?" she cried in dismay. "How could I tell you _anything_ at all, when you were so _good_ , Timothy? I woke up in more beds than I cared to remember, I did end up becoming a whore, Lord knows, and a drunk – men and whiskey numbed me for years, let me pretend that I hadn't been discarded because I was damaged goods."

She was crying in earnest now, anguished sobs that made his heart ache.

He went to her.

"You could have told me what troubled you so, Jude," he said, gently. "Only God gives judgment, not I. He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her."

"I'd done so much wrong but Mother Claudia had been so good to me despite it all – and you came along, with so much faith, so many promises…" Her voice quavered. "But then you took everyone else's word against mine, you took my dignity – and yet I _still_ loved you, like a fool." Each word was laced with hurt she still kept, with the anger Timothy had mistakenly assumed had been forgotten when he saw her this afternoon.

Ignoring her attempts to avoid him, he held her arms tight so that she couldn't escape. Her muscles were stiff under his grip, although she raised a hand to cover her face.

"And there is nothing I regret more than what I'd done to you. I'd made so many mistakes, and yet, I could never bring myself to believe that what we had was a mistake," he confessed.

"We didn't have anything, Timothy."

"I had you."

She smiled sadly through her tears. "You had your ambition. You had God. You left me behind."

"I never should have let you walk away," he said, firmly, catching her gaze. She searched his face with her piercing eyes. He'd left her, let her go – literally and figuratively – more times than he cared to remember.

 _Pack up your things, Sister._

Each time, the disappointment and betrayal in her eyes scorched a mark into his being.

 _You will, of course, be stripped of your clerical standing. No longer will you be a sister of the Holy Catholic Church._

Suddenly, it didn't matter that he was Cardinal – all that mattered was that she understood truly, how much she meant to him. He cupped her cheek.

"Please don't." She took a shuddering breath.

His fingers slid to the nape of her neck, threading through warm, soft hair, before leaning down to capture her mouth. She tasted like a Boston summer, sweet peaches, warm and wet – unlike the first time, she didn't taste like cigarettes. He was surprised at how easily she yielded to him, considering her protests. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, as she clung to him desperately.

"Don't cry," he soothed.

Immediately, Jude shoved him away. "Don't cry?!" she spat, viciously. "I love a selfish, blind man, and all you can say is _don't cry_?! Why couldn't you have left me alone today? Why did you need to ask to see me tonight when you _know…_ " She pushed a finger into his chest. "False hope and lies, Timothy. That's all you're good for."

"Jude!"

"Get out!" she bellowed.

Her anger was palpable in the room, making his temple throb. The music from the neighbours pulsed uncomfortably in his head. But he feared that if he left tonight, he would never see her again.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Get out!" she cried, struggling against him as if his presence itself was unbearable. "Get out! Get out!"

He held her stubbornly until she wore herself out, felt her weight becoming heavy, and then slowly maneuvered them both onto the floor. She was still trembling against his chest, although the palms of her hands no longer pushed him away. Her breaths were hot against his neck.

They sat together on the hard floor, with each new song being played as an indicator of time. _And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be…_ The throbbing in Timothy's head faded as her breathing evened out, and he hummed along to the music, like a lullaby. He must have heard ten songs or so before she stilled completely against him, having fallen asleep.

He picked her up and went to her bed where he laid her down gently on the made bed. He switched on the lamp on the side-table so he could see her properly. Her brows were knitted together in uneasy rest, and he ran his thumb across her forehead to comfort her.

 _I love a selfish, blind man._

He imagined his office, it's imposing mahogany desk and bookcases, leather-bound volumes arranged alphabetically on the shelves. How good it would have felt to have Jude sitting across him, challenging his decisions but supporting him when he truly needed it, someone to share a moment of amusement with. Jude was supposed to be there, his voice of reason, his confidante, his friend, his –

No.

There had always been more left unspoken, and he'd been content to leave it the way it was.

But now, Jude was no longer a member of the clergy.

She was free to live the way she pleased, let her hair be golden and glorious, smoke cigarettes, love whomever she pleased.

For the longest time, God had been all he needed. Now, there was an emptiness in his heart which God himself couldn't fill. Without thinking, he pulled off his shoes and flipped the light switch off. The bed was large enough to fit the both of them, and he laid down awkwardly on one side. Despite having touched Jude so intimately months before, he had never shared a bed with a woman. He turned on his side – a position he was unaccustomed to sleeping in – wanting to reassure himself that she was real, even in the vague darkness of night.

He stirred with a pleasant weight on his chest, the brightness of day a warm orange behind his closed eyelids. When he slowly blinked into wakefulness, Jude's was gazing right at him, chin propped up by her arms crossed on his chest. She was so beautiful.

"You didn't leave."

"No."

"You should leave soon," she said, softly. "Someone might see you." Even in her own dejection, after how he'd hurt her, she was thinking of him.

"It doesn't matter," Timothy said, shaking his head.

"Don't be reckless," she chastised.

He pushed himself upright, forcing her to sit back on her heels.

"I'm not," he said. "I've just made up my mind."

"What are you saying?"

Timothy took a deep breath. "If you'll have me, Jude, I promise I will never leave you again."

She threw her head back and laughed. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Cardinal," she said, bitterly. He kept silent, but took her hand the same way he had many times before. She swallowed nervously. "If your words aren't true, Timothy..."

He cut her off. "If this means leaving the Church, then so be it."

"You are serious, aren't you?"

"I love you," he said, realising the truth of his feelings aloud for the first time. Now that he had, he wanted to say it over and over again. He lifted her palm to his lips, breathing in the faint scent of gardenias and something that was just _her._

"Oh." The corners of her mouth lifted.

"I love you," he said again, simply because he could.

"Oh, Timothy," she whispered, and threw her arms around his neck.

He took her lips in a searing kiss, pushing her down and flipping them over so that she was on the bed beneath him. He pulled away slightly, when notes of a guitar started playing, and frowned at the blank white wall.

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night…_

"The neighbours are up." She giggled, light and girlish, a sound he had never heard before.

"I don't care about the neighbours," he laughed, and stroked her cheek.

"All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arise," she sang along, casually, with a smile on her face. Her voice was soft velvet in a way that showed she was used to singing. He wanted to ask more, but decided to leave it for another time, another day.

All the tension from the previous day dissipated in the promise of new beginnings. Sunlight made her hair glow like a halo on the white pillow, as if she was an angel sent to him. "I must thank God."

"Why?"

"Each time I pray for peace, for clarity, for sanity … I see it now. _You_ are God's gift to me, Jude. You always have been."

Her eyes were bright at his admission. "My Mama had always said that God always answers our prayers, even if it's not in the way we expect Him to."

In the dust-speckled morning sunlight, Timothy Howard found that his heart was full again.

 _fin_

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:**_ The Beatles' songs referenced are _She Loves You, Blackbird, Let it Be_.


End file.
